


Oblation

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24515257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Eönwë collects a sacrifice.
Relationships: Eönwë/Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	Oblation

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The shrine has fallen—the walls have been torn down, shattered into crumbs scattered about the grass, chunks of polished stone and the fraying ends of tapestries strewn all along the hill, only the eastern tower standing. The side of it is burned, and the twisting tile floors that weave out from it are stained with dark soot and crusting red. Eönwë descends over the remnants of what was once a proud beacon. He hasn’t the heart to report to Manwë what’s become of it. Manwë knows well enough that the elves of Valinor are struggling, but it won’t do him any good to know the full extent—how truly _crude_ their people are. He seems to have every faith that they’ll crawl out of it all on their own. Seeing the destruction for himself, Eönwë isn’t so sure. 

He paces around the ruins of the ancient shrine, until he sees the one who called for him—one of the few whose call he would still answer. The grand oak that once stood at the hill’s very top has been cut away to little more than a stump, and Kanafinwë sits at its base. His hands are neatly folded atop his knees, his head politely bowed, his handsome body wrapped in the ceremonial robes of a time long past. If the shrine still stood in its glory, this would have only one meaning. 

As things have fallen so far into chaos, Eönwë no longer knows. He wades towards the elf, the breeze stirring the white robes around his feet, the wind tasting of ash and malice. But the air directly around Kanafinwë’s silent figure is peaceful, as it’s always been. 

Eönwë reaches him and asks, “You summoned me?”

“I did,” Kanafinwë murmurs, and he bows so low to the ground that his dark spills out all around him, billowing across the dirt. As he rises again, eyes downcast, he answers, “I come to ask for the Valar’s help in my home, to soothe the unease and put an end to conflict.” 

A part of Eönwë is surprised it took so long for anyone to ask. The rest of him is surprised someone did at all, because the rubble around them is proof enough of the broken connection between the elves and higher powers. While Eönwë ponders the enigma of this one pretty creature, Kanafinwë continues, “I offer myself as sacrifice in exchange for any aid. I have my father’s blood, perhaps one of the richest that could be offered, and so I hope highborn enough not to offend them.”

“And Fëanáro sanctioned this?” Eönwë asks, curious, because that particular ‘highborn’ elf’s covetous nature seems to be half the problem below. But Kanafinwë shakes his head.

“I come against his wishes.” His head finally lifts, his eyes catching Eönwë’s, piercing and every bit as beautiful as they were the last time Eönwë gazed into them. The only difference now is trouble laced at the corner of his soft lips, weighing down his frown, and his hair seems to be a tad tangled from the journey—he must have traveled far and swiftly. Kanafinwë murmurs, “I am not the first heir, and perhaps you deserve to be given that instead. But I consider myself to be somewhat level-headed, and I believe I have the best chance of convincing my betters to show mercy.”

It shows conviction that he’s come. A sense of humility that he’ll bow. And Eönwë remembers well the tone of his voice in the most exquisite songs. It would be more than a fair trade—the deft, simple touch needed to restore peace in exchange for this one great treasure. But Eönwë reminds him, “I am only the messenger.” 

“Shall I send for another brother to appease you as well?”

Eönwë tilts his head and clarifies, “In addition, or in exchange? Are you for my master, or am I to keep you myself?”

A small smile twitches at the corner of Kanafinwë’s lips. “The choice is yours. I offer freely. You may do whatever you like with me.”

Eönwë has never quite understood the tradition of _sacrifices_. Manwë has never been particularly inclined towards it either, and Eönwë often thinks it a remnant of simpler times, when Aulë would send Mairon down to treat with the elves. Mairon surely would’ve taken anything on offer. 

Normally, Eönwë wouldn’t. But he extends his hand for Kanafinwë, who delicately takes it. Eönwë pulls Kanafinwë up to his feet, and he stands as tall as Eönwë, though rooted on the ground. He has no wings to grow like the massive sheaths of feathers that extend from Eönwë’s back—it’s time to return home. He decides, “I will speak to Manwë on this, and you may as well, for I think perhaps you have a voice he would listen to.”

Eyes alight, Kanafinwë bows in thanks. Eönwë adds, “And I will keep you, if only because you are too pure a creature to return to your troublesome brethren. I would have you sing in my home as you once did at this temple, when the world was young and kind.”

Kanafinwë breathes, “I would be honoured.” He steps forward, reaching his arms around Eönwë’s shoulders—Eönwë scoops him up by the waist and lifts him, carrying him off to greater things.


End file.
